Chapter 3
Three
Shutting the podcast off, I stretch and yawn.
The Patterson discovery is organized, indexed, cross-referenced. But between the true crime podcasts and actually being interested in the case details, I kept working. Reorganizing. Double-checking.
Anything to delay the inevitable climb to Dom’s office.
It also makes the time go faster.
Thai long gone and my boba finished, I glance at the time. 1:47 a.m.
I should have finished hours ago. Should have picked Alex up by now. But the work kept me here. It always keeps me here.
Seventeen texts from Alex tracking her progression through the night kept me going. From Bob & Barbara’s to Franky Bradley’s to Woody’s. A complete tour of Philadelphia’s nightlife while I organized witness statements in a basement.
She’s definitely drunk.
I gather up everything Dom needs for this case and begin to shut everything down. I’ll need to come back down and clean up my mess, but the only thing on my mind right now is my bed.
And picking up Alex from the club.
Holding my folders to my chest in one hand and my heels in the other, my phone clatters to the floor. For a moment I debate picking it up but instead leave it to grab before I leave and I walk back through the stacks to the elevator.
Unfortunately for me, no matter how many times I press the up arrow, it doesn’t light up.
“Don’t do this to me,” I mutter to the old elevator. It’s one of those ancient ones that Dom finds endearing. And it loves to stop working at the worst possible moments.
Like now, when I need to get to his floor and deliver the paperwork.
I press the button again. Nothing. Not even a light. My stomach drops.
It was working fine when I came down at eight. Usually it at least lights up before refusing to move.
But it’s two in the fucking morning and I’m not troubleshooting an elevator.
I eye the stairs. No one wants to climb four flights in the middle of the night.
I slam my pointer finger on the button one more time. It blinks once, then goes out.
Fuck my life.
I begrudgingly choose the stairs.
Opening the stairwell door, the buzz of fluorescent lights crawls under my skin. Dom hates them as much as the next person—they only exist in the stairwell and the basement. The rest of the building gets soft lights.
I peer up the center and sigh.
“This is why I don’t do cardio,” I mutter as I begin the ascent.
One step. Two. Three. The folders press against my chest. My heels dangle from my other hand, bumping against my thigh with each step.
Ten steps. Eleven. Twelve. Landing. Turn.
My breathing echoes in the enclosed space. The sound bounces off concrete walls.
Twenty steps. Twenty-one. Landing. Turn.
About halfway up, the lights flicker. Once. Twice.
And then they go out completely.
I stop.
I’m a woman. Alone. In complete darkness. In an empty building at 2 AM.
Nobody knows I’m here.
Alex thinks I’m finishing up. Dom’s in his office four floors up. The building is empty. If something happened—if someone came in, if I fell, if the door locked behind me—nobody would know until Monday morning.
My heart’s doing something weird now. Not just the climb. This is different.
This is fear.
Real fear.
But I can’t go back. Dom’s waiting. And I can’t text Alex because my phone is laying on the flor in the stacks.
I’m alone in this. Completely alone.
Blind and shaking, I mentally count each time my feet land on the twist to the next floor. My free hand trails the wall. Concrete. Cold. Real.
Thirty steps. Thirty-one. My legs burn.
Forty steps. Landing. Turn.
The darkness is complete. No emergency lighting. No exit signs. Just blackness and the sound of my own breathing and my heartbeat loud in my ears.
Fifty steps. Fifty-one.
Fourth floor. Has to be.
I reach out, hand searching for the door handle. Cold metal under my palm.
Found it.
I ease the door open just a crack.
The fourth floor hallway is empty. Dark, except for a sliver of light at the far end. Dom’s office. His door sits cracked open—light spilling into the hallway.
Voices. Low at first, then rising. An argument carrying through the empty building.
I freeze, still hidden in the stairwell. The door is barely open—just enough to hear.
Do I step out? Announce myself? Or wait until they’re done and pretend I just arrived?
The voices get louder. Clearer.
And then—
“I killed her, Dom.”
Not Dom’s voice. Someone else.
My body freezes.
And then Alex’s voice in my head: Be careful in the stacks.
That mystical all-knowing quality. Her face when she smelled snow. That flicker across her features, gone before I could name it.
She knew.
She fucking knew, and I didn’t listen.
Every thriller podcast I’ve ever listened to, every true crime episode, every legal brief about witness safety—they all scream the same thing: Get out. Leave. Don’t be the person who heard too much.
But my feet won’t move.
Something starts at the base of my spine. Cold. Then hot. Then cold again. Like something’s crawling up my back except there’s nothing there.
Goosebumps break out across my arms. My neck. My scalp.
My ears start ringing. Not loud. Just this high-pitched hum that sits behind everything else.
The folders in my arms feel impossibly heavy. My heels slip from my other hand, hitting the concrete with a sound that cracks through the silence.
I freeze.
I just climbed four flights in pitch darkness without hesitation. But this—this spooks me.
“What did you do?” Dom’s voice cuts through the silence. Calm. Practiced. Like he’s heard this before.
The words hit me like a slap.
Not what are you accused of. Not let’s review the evidence.
What did you DO?
Dom knows. Dom believes whoever this is. And he’s asking for details so he can help.
My stomach drops.
I should leave. Back down the stairs, back to the stacks, grab my things and get the hell out.
But my feet won’t move.
I don’t know who’s up there. A client. Someone Dom represents. Someone who just admitted to murder.
Someone who might come down these stairs.
And everything I thought I knew about my job, my boss, my future—
It’s gone.
All of it. In one sentence.
Dom isn’t just defending criminals. He’s helping them get away with murder.
I don’t have a lot of time to decide what I’m going to do. Either I leave—let attorney-client privilege stand. Or I stay. I listen.
I witness.
Nerves claw at my insides. And I make a decision.
I stay.